Bittersweet Reality
by IndigoRiot
Summary: Johnny was right. So was Robert. Oliver too, although he never said it as bluntly as the other two did. His riches were the only thing Enrique had going for him, and the only thing that kept the girls hanging around. OneShot.   Please R&R :


_**Word~**_  
><em>This is a one shot based on an idea I had in response to a review received on one of the chapters of my series. It popped into my head as soon as I read it and stayed there all night, and I just had to get it out. It's just an introspective, experimental "what-if" piece about Enrique and his reason for chasing girls.<em>  
><em>Everyone's always making fun of him for his Casanova act, (I for one love it) but I'm sure the poor guy has a reason!<em>

**Disclaimer~  
><strong>_Piddlesworth, Enrique and his mansion belong to Takao Aoki, not me._

**Thanks to~**  
><em>~AquilaTempestas, who is currently my ONLY reviewer (cry) and to who I owe my lightbulb moment. Thanks! :) <em>

* * *

><p><strong>Bittersweet Reality<strong>

When Enrique returned home that night he lazily sauntered his way up the large, ornately carved cherrywood staircase towards his bedroom, without even so much as announcing himself to Piddlesworth. The butler was probably asleep now anyhow, or else busy with some other duty. Maybe he was in the library and decided to sit down and read once he'd finally caught some spare time. Or perhaps he was finally working on that book Enrique knew he'd been wanting to write for some years now. He remembered how embarrassed the older man had been when his young charge stumbled upon the drafts while he was cutting Math class one day. Enrique's lips turned up into a small smile at the memory.

Piddlesworth didn't need to be disturbed, he decided. Enrique gave him enough hassle during the day without adding to his load with his late nights out.

Enrique entered his room, shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the golden railing at the foot of his bed, before slumping himself down in the comfy old armchair in front of the fireplace. He noticed that it was lit. Piddlesworth must have done it earlier, anticipating the unseasonably chilly spring night. Enrique was grateful for this. He needed its warmth.

He snuggled in to the depths his seat and stared into the fire. The armchair was a pale blue-grey colour, neatly embroidered, but faded and fraying slightly at the arms. It looked so out of place in comparison to everything else in Enrique's room which was rich and ornate and new. It was perfectly sculpted to the shape of his slim frame, revealing that this was probably his favourite place to sit.

He thought about his date with Victoria today. It didn't go too well. As always. As much as he acted the part of the smooth-talking, charming little Casanova, he wasn't too good with chatting up the ladies. He always managed to say the wrong thing, or get his words mixed up and wind up insulting them when he meant to compliment. But today was worse.

This time, he'd gotten her name wrong.

Enrique winced at the memory. He felt really bad about that. In fairness, he hadn't gotten it wrong by much. He'd called her Viola, instead of Victoria. But it could've been worse - he could've called her Alicia, or Melanie. Or _Claire! _Viola was at least similar!

They were out on the pier by the lake, watching the sunset. He'd laid out a picnic for them all by himself, with champagne and everything. It was a beautiful night, and Enrique thought she looked just as stunning as their surroundings. Perhaps even more so. Her long, wavy strawberry-blonde hair (no, really, _literally_ strawberry-blonde – it _was_ blonde, but was somehow also pink at the same time too) hanging loose down her back, and it was a deep warm colour in the amber glow of sunset. She was smiling at him, and her eyes were sparkling as the sunlit waves reflected in them. She was beautiful, and she was smiling at _him._

Until her face fell, and contorted with indignation as she called him up on his mistake. They argued as he tried to explain himself to her. It wasn't a good day for him today, he'd explained. He was distracted and it was an accident – he was thinking of someone else!

Of course that went down well.

He again tried to explain that _that_ wasn't what he'd meant, that she'd misunderstood! But now the mood was broken and the night was ruined. She was picking up her things and getting ready to leave. But he didn't want her to go. He _needed_ her to _not_ be mad at him; he needed her to like him.

So he played his trump card. He offered her a ride out in the Ferrari, or the yacht. He offered to take her shopping and she could get whatever she wanted. Just please don't go. He'll make it up to her, he swears.

So she thought again, and decided to give him a second chance. She sat back down beside him and snuggled up to his side, asking what it was like to be out on the water. She'd never been in a boat before. Did it rock a lot on the waves? Would she feel sick? She thinks she'd rather go out shopping instead, just in case.

They passed the rest of the night chatting comfortably, if a little awkwardly after their fight. Then, when Enrique thought it was getting a little too dark, late and cold, he offered to walk her home – like a true gentleman. He gave her his jacket when she shivered, and felt something move in his chest when she looked up at him gratefully with those eyes.

As Enrique thought about the events of the night as he stared into the fire, he found himself simultaneously very grateful, and very resentful, that he was rich.

Money.

Johnny was right. So was Robert. Oliver too, although he never said it as bluntly as the other two did. His riches were the only thing Enrique had going for him, and the only thing that kept the girls hanging around – until they'd gotten what they'd wanted, of course. Then they left. And he had move on.

He didn't know _why_ he needed the attention of the fairer sex so much, he just _did_. It was a raw craving that he couldn't ignore.

It wasn't because he was a sleaze-bag just looking for a piece of ass. He wasn't like that. In fact, he rarely slept with any of the girls he dated, partially because they never stuck around long enough, but also because it was the kind of thing he thought should be special. As far as he was concerned, sex wasn't cheap, and he looked down on people who thought that it was.

Enrique looked towards the picture frame that stood atop the mantlepiece above the fire. Standing up, he reached out for it and held it softly in his hands for a moment before sitting back down in a slump.

It was a picture of his mother. He traced a finger over the glass as he looked at her; her face, her hair, her eyes. Enrique looked just like her. She had messy, curling, light blonde hair that fell just past her shoulders, and bright blue eyes. In the photo, she was smiling into the camera joyfully as a chubby little pink-faced Enrique looked up at her from her lap, his little fist entangled in her hair. She was the most beautiful woman he'd _ever_ known, and not just because she was pretty.

She was calm, and gentle, with endless amounts of patience and kindness. He'd have called her an angel – but that would be too cliche, and she deserved better.

This was her armchair.

When Enrique was small, she used to sit here, and he'd crawl up into her lap and she'd hold him in her arms and sing as she rocked him to sleep. Enrique shifted in the armchair that he now occupied alone, so that he was curled up towards the side with his head resting on the arm. He held the picture frame close to his heart.

He missed her.

His father was never home. He was always away on business. Enrique didn't hate him for it, but he didn't really love him either. Whenever he came home to visit, Enrique would greet him with all the respect that he was due as his father, and when he left again he wished him well. But that was the extent of their relationship.

It was his mother who held his heart.

When she died, Enrique was crushed. Lost. She was his _whole_ _world_, and he didn't know what to do anymore now that she was gone. He was left alone in this big house that was full of servants and exquisite furniture, but empty at the same time. His mother was the life and soul of the place. And now he had nothing but a heap of money and a desperate, yearning ache to be held.

It was ten years ago today.

When he called Victoria by _that_ name out on the pier, it was because he was thinking of his mother. But he didn't know how to explain that. So he just threw the only thing he had left at her to make her stay – his money.

Because he _needed_ her to stay.

He _needed_ her to look at him with eyes full of warmth, because it was a ghost of the warmth that was in his mother's eyes. He _needed_ to hear the gentle cadence of her laugh, because it was an echo of his mother's joy when she was alive. He _needed_ to feel her gentle touch on his arm, because it was the phantom of his mother's embrace.

He shifted in his armchair again.

Ten years later, it didn't even smell like her anymore.

But sitting here, he could almost feel his mother's arms circle around him – her fingers threading through his hair, rubbing his back gently as she sung him to sleep.

Tomorrow, when he would be shopping with Victoria, he would feel the same ghost his mother's warmth when she hung off his arm and smiled up at him. Even if it was only for his money. Even if it was only for the things he bought her, he would still _feel_ it.

It wasn't enough. But it would suffice, for now.

Because he needed it.

**––––––––––––––––––**

Piddlesworth approached Enrique's door and knocked on it softly. He knew the teen had arrived back home some time ago, but since he didn't call for him, he left him be, presuming that he might like some time alone.

He knew very well what day it was. It was the anniversary. And Enrique always avoided the house on this day. He'd leave straight after breakfast, and would only return late at night when he thought everybody was sleeping.

Receiving no answer for his knock, Piddlesworth softly opened the door and ventured inside. He walked right past the bed, knowing very well that his young charge wouldn't be there, and approached the fireplace at the far end of the room. There he found Enrique, slumped over the side of the armchair, sleeping. One arm dangled loosely over the side of the chair, while the other one still held the picture frame close to his chest.

Softly, carefully, Piddlesworth eased the picture out of his hands and laid it back to rest on top of the mantlepiece. It wouldn't do to have Enrique shift around in the night and accidentally break the glass and scratch the picture, it would devastate him. He then strode over to the bed and removed the top quilt, laying it down gently on the sleeping teen so he wouldn't get cold in the night.

Resigning to the fact that, unfortunately, there was nothing he could do for the teen's dreams and loneliness, Piddlesworth quietly flicked off the light and left the room, closing the door behind him, and wishing him at least a peaceful night's rest.


End file.
